


caught myself in your eyes

by imaginejolls



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Cunnilingus, F/F, Femslash February, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29293059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginejolls/pseuds/imaginejolls
Summary: There's something about Roberta Draper. Something compelling.
Relationships: Bobbie Draper/Monica Stuart
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	caught myself in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> listen, we all looked at Bobbie standing next to Monica for like, 10 seconds and decided it would be hot. and it is! all mistakes are my own, i hope you enjoy

Bobbie sleeps for twelve hours straight. Her bone-deep exhaustion rivals that of Naomi, recuperating in the med-bay. Holden looks perpetually tired; Monica doesn’t know his face looking any other way. Maybe that’s why you won’t find him without a cup of coffee nearby.

It isn’t in Monica’s nature to be nervous, she can’t be in her line of work. But the sergeant’s presence alone commands respect, and Monica’s sure she won’t appreciate being woken up, so really, who can blame her if her stomach feels all fluttery on the way to do just that? Monica hesitates in front of the quarters Draper claimed for herself. With a deep breath she steels herself and lets her knuckles rasp against the side panel at the door of the room. 

There’s a beat of silence. Then, Draper’s rough voice comes through the panel. “Come in,” she says, and the knot in Monica’s stomach tightens.

The door whooshes softly to let her in. Draper is sitting in the bunk, elbows on her knees, head hung low and curtained by her hair. Her eyes, however, do not lack in intensity. Monica shifts under her piercing gaze.

“Sorry,” she finds herself saying, “Holden sent me to check on you.” 

Draper gives a small nod at that. She’s wearing nothing but a tank top and boxerbriefs the colour of steel, everything else is just brown skin and muscle. Monica stares for a moment too long.

“Was there anything else?” 

“Uh, just, thanks again for looking at the fight logs for me. Appreciate it.” Her voice is steady - good save. 

Draper looks at her with something Monica knows intimately: curiosity and interest to look under the surface. “Hope it pays out,” is all she says. 

Monica knows when it’s time to leave. Doesn’t always have the good sense to do so, but there’s no reason for her to linger; there’s no story here for her to chase. 

Monica’s poring over the footage in the galley. She’s been at it long enough that her food’s gone cold. She rotates the image this way and that, trying to make sense of it. At the clicking sound of approaching footsteps, she looks up from the terminal. Draper appears in the doorway. Her hair is tied snug at the back of her head, and her grey jumpsuit hugs every curve, every inch of her body tightly. Monica wonders briefly whether the Martians bothered to discover other colours. 

“Sergeant,” she says instead and straightens in her seat. 

“Just Bobbie is fine,” Draper says into a cupboard. 

Monica studies the rigid line of her back. Wonders how much of her strength is projected by the invisible armor she puts on for the rest of the universe to see. “How are you feeling?” 

“Rested.” Draper sets her body down on the bench next to her with a sigh. “Hungry.” A flash of a smile. 

Be a reporter for long enough, you learn to see right through everyone’s bullshit. Though a degree in psychology probably helps too. Either way, Monica’s not buying it. She makes her voice matter-of-factly, but soft. “You’ve been through enough to last three lifetimes, Ser- Bobbie.” 

Bobbie looks up from her food tray. Her eyes grow distant. “Yeah,” that sandpaper voice again, “it is what it is.” 

Monica’s first instinct is to reach out and lay a hand on Bobbie’s shoulder, and she doesn’t fight it. Their connection lasts three heartbeats. Then, Monica lets her hand trail down Bobbie’s arm and back onto the table. “It’s okay if you’re miserable right now.” 

“Not very productive, though, is it?” Bobbie’s eye hold an unknowable amount of sadness in them. She nods towards the terminal. “How’s it going?” 

With a sharp inhale through her nose, Monica brings back her focus to the latest mystery. “There’s still one thing I don’t understand…”

The Rocinante is only so big and there are only so many things to do. Monica finds herself sharing space with Bobbie more often than she would have expected. Usually it is in companionable silence. Monica enjoys that. But sometimes they talk, about things of no significance, and Bobbie’s voice grows softer, her eyes lose their sombre quality. Monica enjoys that more. It strikes her to realise how young the former Gunnery Sergeant actually is. Monica collects the glimpses of Bobbie’s youth and out of them she builds a mosaic of who she might have been, or perhaps who she once was. Still, she wants to get to know the person that Bobbie is now. There’s something about her, something compelling. Maybe it’s her bravery, her loyalty and steadfastness. Either way, Monica chases the clues that lead to the bigger picture that makes up Roberta Draper.

“Hey,” Bobbie says in lieu of a greeting, having dropped into Monica’s quarters unannounced. 

“You startled me!” 

Bobbie jabs a thumb in the direction of the door. “Door was open.” 

She’s right, though now it is closed behind her. “I like to hear what’s going on,” Monica says and feels a little childish. 

“Sure, nosy.” Bobbie drops down onto the bed while Monica watches from her spot at the tiny, crowded table. “Fancy a drink?” 

Before she has a chance to answer, Bobbie’s lips wrap around the mouth of an unmarked bottle and she takes a swig. She only shudders a little and holds the bottle out. Monica shrugs. “Why not?” 

It’s tequila. Probably. Monica isn’t going to ask, just gives the bottle back. She does wonder, though, where it came from. 

“Found it in Alex’s stuff,” Bobbie says, as if she knew exactly what Monica’s line of thought was. “Figured he wasn’t going to drink it anymore.” 

The words hang in between them like a heavy dark cloud just before the downpour comes. Bobbie takes another swig. “Tell me,” she starts, then clears her throat. “Tell me something.” 

Monica takes the bottle from her outstretched hand. Their fingers brush. She takes a sip and starts talking. About the town she grew up in, that she worked for the high school newspaper. About university and her big dream that she would help people and how it all came crashing down. At some point she moves to the bed next to Bobbie. When she’s finished talking, voice strained as she hasn’t been using it as much these days, she places a tentative hand on Bobbie’s thigh. Bobbie gives her an amused smile.

“Ask me again when we’re sober.” And with that she’s at the door again, the half-finished bottle in hand. “See you later.”

Monica frowns at the empty corridor. Damn this woman. Luring her in with drinks and stories about the past and then disappearing like steam. Monica lets out a tipsy giggle. Well played, Sergeant.

Roberta Draper haunts her dreams. Her lips curved into a smile, sure hands on Monica’s waist, her body crowded against hers, trapping her underneath. The weight of her is delicious. Monica traces the shape of her with her hands, hips bucking into the space between them. She wakes up in her bunk alone, an ache between her thighs. This goddamn woman. 

“Bobbie.” This time it’s Monica dropping in unannounced, though she has enough manners left to wait outside the door. Inside, she finds Bobbie in just a tank top and shorts again. Her skin is glistening with sweat. 

“Fuck me,” Monica breathes out. Originally she planned to be more eloquent about it, but basically. Yeah. 

That smug smile again. “With pleasure.” 

Monica crosses the distance between them, her hands brace against Bobbie’s chest before she rises on her toes to catch her mouth in a kiss. Bobbie’s hand cradles the back of her neck. She is gentle. It knocks the air out of Monica’s lungs; she didn’t expect such tenderness. Bobbie kisses her slowly but deeply, licks into her mouth and makes a sound deep in her throat that Monica feels reverberate between her legs. Her hips jerk forward in response.

Bobbie pushes and Monica moves. Her back connects with the wall with a dull thud. Bobbie strips out of her top in one fluid motion, a graceful display of skin. Monica cannot believe this woman is actually real. She looks like an ancient sculpture. Made of nothing but muscle, yet soft around the edges. Her skin is a history of war. 

Monica struggles out of her boots. Her pants and underwear comes off so fast she would be embarrassed about it if she wasn’t so far gone. Bobbie towers over her and she has to tilt her head back to look into the coal-dark eyes. Monica pulls her down by the back of her neck. Their kiss is all-consuming. Everything else fades away. There’s only the wall behind Monica’s back and Bobbie pressed against her front, their mouths locked in an intricate dance. They tear apart out of breath. Monica can’t help herself: she leans in and traces Bobbie’s collarbone with her tongue. Her skin is salty with sweat. Bobbie’s breath is warm on the shell of her ear. Monica ventures down to her breasts, licks, bites and tugs on her nipples, reveling in the sounds it pulls out of Bobbie. Monica’s hands are so small in comparison with the sheer mass of her. It makes the breath catch in Monica’s throat. She traces the line of Bobbie’s lips, across her chin, down the middle of her neck… With both hands now she outlines her chest, follows the line of her hips and stops at the waistband of her shorts. Monica tugs and Bobbie moves. She grinds against Monica’s hipbone, breathing hot and harsh against her cheek.

“What do you want?” Bobbie asks. 

Monica tugs her in again and kisses her firmly. “I want you to fuck me,” she says into the space between their mouths, “and then I want to eat you out.”

Bobbie hums against her lips. “I like it.” 

The backs of her fingers press into the dripping mess on Monica’s cunt. Bobbie takes her hand away, and a pathetic sound tears its way out of Monica’s chest. Her eyes on Bobbie’s face are as harsh as she can manage. 

“Aw, poor thing,” Bobbie says around a mock-pout. “So desperate for it.” 

She’s going to have to say it, isn’t she. Monica bites down hard on her own lip. Then: “Please.” 

Bobbie licks the smear of Monica’s arousal off her fingers, then pops three of them into her mouth. The sight almost makes Monica’s heart jump out of her chest. Jesus Christ. 

The spit-slick fingers waste no time between her folds. A couple of swift circles around her clit have Monica’s abs contracting, she gasps for breath. And then two fingers are slipping inside of her, filling her up just so, and she cries with it, ruined and defeated. Her face drops down on Bobbie’s chest. Eyes screwed shut and mouth open wide, Monica moans and gasps and _begs_ into her skin, while Bobbie fucks her hard and fast against the wall. She rubs herself on Monica in time with her thrusts, grunting. 

When Bobbie adds the third finger, Monica feels like she’s going to burst. It’s so much so fast, and yet not enough at the same time, and she whines on each heaving breath and pleads. 

“Come on,” Bobbie husks above her, “come on.” Her own hips are desperate in their movement. There’s a hand in Monica’s hair with a powerful grip bordering on painful, and Bobbie’s head bows down to meet her in an open-mouthed half-kiss, and Bobbie’s fingers curve just so- For a split second Monica sees stars. Then everything stops. 

She comes down from it shuddering. Bobbie is muttering “I’ve got you,” into her temple as she carefully extricates her hand from between her legs. There’s a mess all down her thighs. Bobbie sits her down on the bunk, fetches a cloth and cleans it up for her. Monica is struck again by her kindness. She trails her fingers over the sculpted features of Bobbie’s face, dodging her mouth when Bobbie playfully bites down on nothing.

“Feeling alright?”

“I’m feeling fucking fantastic,” Monica informs her in earnest. 

Bobbie herself looks as though she was doing military drills. Tendrils of hair stick to her forehead, her touch is burning, her eyes ablaze. The wet spot on her shorts is striking.

“Come here.” Monica holds out a hand. Bobbie steps into her reach, lets herself be pulled in even closer. Monica mouths over a scar that traverses her stomach. An exhale. 

“Take these off for me.” 

Bobbie does. Nude, she is the picture of an Olympian. Her body is a testament to her iron will and determination, shaped by war and violence, and yet her eyes hold so much gentleness. Monica gestures for her to come closer. With a hand on the back of Bobbie’s thigh she guides her leg up on the bed next to herself, opening her up. 

What Monica lacks in technique, she makes up for in enthusiasm. Her tongue is so insistent, as though Bobbie was a case and she was unlocking its secrets. She’s perceptive. Quick to figure out what works for Bobbie, and when she wraps a hand around the back of Monica’s neck, Monica lets her ride her face until her legs tremble. And then Monica sucks on her clit, grazes it with the slightest hint of teeth, and Bobbie is gone. She bucks wildly against Monica’s face. 

“Fuck!”

Monica looks up to find her leaning on the top of the bunk, face hidden in her forearm. She can picture her as a statue like this: face distorted with pleasure, partially obscured, vulnerable, yet strong. She’s a fucking vision. Monica wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Her fingers are light on Bobbie’s hip, asking a silent question. Bobbie hums in the affirmative. Monica stands up. Drops a kiss to Bobbie’s shoulder then crosses the room to put her clothes back on. She can feel Bobbie’s eyes on her the whole time. The air is charged, but not unpleasantly so. Monica meets her gaze. 

“This was great,” she says and means it. 

Bobbie sets her body down on the bed. “See you later?” she asks, eyes quizzical.

Monica gives her a smile. It is honest. “Looking forward to it.”


End file.
